


Would You Rather

by Wisteria_Leigh



Series: Prompted Works [15]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blizzards & Snowstorms, Love Confessions, M/M, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Snow, Snowed In, The Barns (Raven Cycle), Tumblr Prompt, accent level: one "I Reckon", googled latin phrases that are probably wrong, writer having way too much fun dropping gs from speech to replicate appalachian accents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 16:41:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17707901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wisteria_Leigh/pseuds/Wisteria_Leigh
Summary: “Are you fucking kidding me? Ducks are monsters. They scream, they bite, they hiss--”“You’re thinkin of geese, dumbass.”





	Would You Rather

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by an anon on Tumblr: "if u could write some sleep deprived/delirious Adam I think I would die ♥️"
> 
> Thought that this story would work as a continuation of  this fic 

**** “No no no, listen to me. It doesn't make sense.”

“Yes, it does, Parrish.”

“No, because you can’t kick  _ all  _ of them. There’s 100. They run way faster than you do. They could easily overtake you an’ trample you to death. What’s 1 large duck gonna do? Quack at me ‘til I surrender?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Ducks are  _ monsters. _ They scream, they bite, they hiss--”

“You’re thinkin of  _ geese,  _ dumbass.”

“I am  _ not  _ thinking of geese, shithead. Ducks are satan’s work.”

Adam sits up on his elbow. “And horses are assholes! Which is exactly why I don’t wanna deal with 100 of ‘em!”

“Have you ever seen a fucking duck? They are not that big!”

“Have  _ you  _ ever met a fuckin horse? They can kick you and break a kneecap.”

“Use you fucking  _ ear,  _ Parrish, they’re  _ the size of fucking ducks. _ ”

2am. The blizzard continues to rage at The Barns, and has yet to show signs of calming. Snow piles higher and higher. Winds howl and throw ice against the glass. Rosy lightning flickers in the white-out while muted thunder cracks and rolls.

Inside, the wood stove burns bright. Sleeves of broken graham crackers lay forgotten on the floor, a half-eaten bag of marshmallows up on the coffee table next to chocolate wrappers.

They built a fort earlier in the night, made a nest of pillows and blankets and topsheets so even the hardwood floors and itchy antique rug feel cozy. It’s late, Adam knows that much. Really late. Or possibly really early. And he’s tired; he could easily let the thick warmth of the fire and the down pillows lull him to sleep, right here, right now. But Ronan is still awake, and he hasn’t won this argument yet, and he’s hungry enough he might roast and eat another hot dog.

“The question doesn’t give the parameters of how much of their strength is or isn’t proportionally transferred, though!” Adam continues, Henrietta drawl thick and syrupy in these early hours of the morning. “Their strength and speed could remain that of full-sized, so then you’re dealin with an army of fuckin...full-strength minature horses! Why would you wanna risk it?”

“I’m sorry, were you making a point? I couldn’t hear it over all the fucking  _ nerd  _ that just spilled out of your mouth.”

Adam punches him in the shoulder. Ronan pokes his side, exactly where he’s most ticklish, again and again and again.

“Quit!” Adam gasps.

“Not until you concede that I’m fucking right.”

“I reckon,” he laughs, holding Ronan’s hands at bay, “that I’d be a fuckin liar, then. That what you want?”

“It’s not lying if it’s the fucking truth.”

“Okay, listen, let’s say  _ maybe  _ you can kick 100 duck-sized horses. Sure, whatever, suspendin my damn disbelief for a minute, okay? But if we’re gonna do that, then I could just tame and ride the duck. So while you’re over there kickin horses ‘til the cows come home,  _ I’ve  _ made a new friend.”

Ronan stares at him. And then he begins to laugh. Cackling, actually. Holding his stomach, rolling onto the floor, face turning bright red. And that makes Adam laugh, because...well, he doesn’t actually know. It just sort of...happens. You have to there, he supposes.

“Can you...wait, wait, wait a fucking second...can you imagine yourself riding a giant fucking _duck?_ No, listen, imagine you pull up to fucking _Yale University_ on a goddamn horse-sized _mallard_ on the first day of school.”

Adam is laughing, now, almost as hard as Ronan is. “Better than the shitbox,” he manages between giggles.

“It is though? Do you  _ know  _ how much ducks shit?”

And that’s it, that’s all it takes for them to both laugh themselves silly, sides cramping and tears welling, not really forming sentences anymore but somehow still acting out what it would be like for Adam to waddle to school on a 2-ton, 8-foot long and 6-foot tall mallard like Don Quixote on his loyal Rocinante.

Adam feels drunk. He hasn’t actually been drunk yet in his life, but he assumes this is what it would feel like. Dizzying. A top spinning out of control. All it takes is one of them whispering “quack” or muttering “Hodoy-duck-ota” for them to fall into fits all over again, unable to stop until they both fall backwards and are forced to either stop laughing or die from oxygen deprivation.

They end up on their backs, giggling still between heaving breaths and wiping tears from their eyes.

The house trembles in a gust of wind.

Suddenly, softly, in a voice rough from laughing, from lack of sleep, from the wood stove smoke, Ronan says, “I love you.”

Adam’s breath catches in his throat.

He turns his head. Ronan is staring, very intentionally, at the peaked roof of the fort, tendons tight and jaw clenched. He turns back to the ceiling.

He’s known for a long time. Has always known, really. Ronan has never been one to wade into the shallow end of the pool. He dives, straight down, into the deep end, for better or for worse.

Every coffee brought during work, every nap taken together, every night he sat quietly for hours so Adam could finish his homework; every time he’s texted him back, or picked up his phone for him; every casual touch, every gentle kiss along his knuckles, every reverent whisper of his name-- _ Adam-- _ has been a confession.

But this...this makes it real.

Adam smiles.

His heart responds without a second thought. “I love you, too,” he says.

He feels Ronan’s head snap to the side, wide, blue eyes boring into the side of his face. Adam turns slowly, cheeks flushed and fingers trembling just the slightest bit.

Even in a blanket fort with his boyfriend at 2am during the biggest blizzard of the past three decades, vulnerability is a scary thing.

Ronan takes his hand, brings it to his lips. And whispers “quack, quack, motherfucker,” into his knuckles.

Adam snorts and rolls his eyes, grips Ronan’s hand to yank him over and kiss him. It’s an awkward angle, and their noses can’t quite fit around each other when they’re both on the floor, so one has to crane their neck in a weird way that probably looks hideously unattractive; so Adam laughs, nervously, sweetly, and Ronan smiles against his lips, lifts himself up on his elbow to kiss him properly, fully, cradling the back of his neck and weaving his fingers through his hair and tracing his cheekbone with his thumb.

“Amorem acuit absentia,” Ronan whispers against him cheek. 

“Eum praesentia confirmat,” Adam finishes, and brings his lips back to his own.

Snow falls. The winds moan. Flames shrink down into embers.

At long last, at 4am, they fall asleep, tangled together among the blankets and pillows.

It’s one of the best nights of sleep they’ve ever had.

**Author's Note:**

> I literally just Googled "Latin love phrases" because I know absolute 0 about Latin. So, if that phrase is dumb, that's why.


End file.
